For a whole day, I do not work. I turn off messages and spend the morning with other writers, poring in silence over the worlds we created. I lie in bed reading, bike home from the river in surprise sunshine, spend hours caramellizing onions: in essence, I live. My aches subside, the ball of lead in my chest. I return to the whims of my imagination, forget to check the time. A voice yells my name outside the window, Manhattan is a village and I never love it more than in the little winks.
It occurs to me that I've spent years searching for direction, but the truth is I had it all along.
After that it's just about yelling loud enough for yourself to hear it.
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